Wilde by Abby Brooks
Chapter Eighteen
Leo
This is going to suck.
I stare at my phone, one finger hovering over the contact for Matix, my angel investor and the first person other than me to believe I was capable of more. He’s been hounding me for weeks to lock down the move date. I shouldn’t have said anything about staying to Amy the other day. It was careless. A hypothetical taken too far. That’s the kind of shit that happens when you get caught up in the moment. Caught up imagining a future that she was part of.
What choice do I have? I don’t want to make this call, but there’s no way in hell I’m going back to her, looking her in the eye, and confessing I made it up. That I hadn’t actually changed anything and was just avoiding dealing with it. I don’t know what’s happening between us, but beyond a shadow of doubt, coming clean like that would be the end of it.
It’s not like I committed to staying forever. He wanted me to lock in a date and I did. She likes the idea of me being around during the pregnancy, not after. So it’s not the month…or year he was expecting. When we look back on this, we’ll laugh.
One day.
Eventually.
I exhale a heavy breath and push the button, praying for voicemail. Matix picks up on the second ring.
“Vilde man.” His accent seems thicker than usual. “I am flying thirty-six thousand feet over the Atlantic right now. But don’t you vorry, I’ll be back to Los Angeles tonight.” He laughs. “Or dis new pilot…he vill be fired. Eh? Tell me you’re calling from the beach. Tell me you are there, and you are hungry, and you have kissed goodbye to everyone you ever vasted your life knowing.”
“Last time we spoke you told me you needed a date.” A nervous laugh slips passed my lips. “No bullshit, no excuses. Right? Those were your words.”
“Yes. Exactly. Oooh, I’m so excited to hear. Tell me, tell me, tell me.”
“February first.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wished I’d picked a date farther in the future.
More time. I need more time for her. More time for us.
“No.” The sound of static—likely from the fact that he’s talking on a satellite phone while sitting in a tube hurling through the sky—makes me question if the call dropped.
“Matix? You still…”
“Zat is too long! You know today is zee end of May? Zis does not make me happy. Zis is not vild—man.” Ironically, it’s the lack of noise, or static of any kind, which indicates the call did end, this time.
“That could’ve gone better,” I mumble to no one. I lay the phone on the kitchen table and notice the drawing I worked on before. My charcoal woman. Staring at her now, there’s still something special about her. I should put it away before she ends up ruined, but every time I pick up the sketchpad something stops me. As if my subconscious sees something I haven’t and isn’t ready for me to let it go. For the umpteenth time, I shake my head and leave the sketchpad, choosing to change the oil in Jezebel and hit the gym before work instead.
* * *
With a towel around my waist, I close the locker door and try to shake off frustration as I make my way to the showers. That workout will go down in the history books as one of the shittiest. I haven’t been able to keep Amy out of my head for more than thirty seconds at a time. Ordinarily, I don’t mind. She’s not hard on the eyes—or the head. But during a workout? No way. If your head’s not in the right space at the gym, you shouldn’t be there. That’s how guys end up hurt.
I lie to myself that I’m off because of the Matix disaster, but I know better. It’s the same reason I brought the idea of staying up in the first place. I’m starting to like the idea of being around.
Nobody said forever. I’m just taking one step at a time.
Assuming I didn’t completely blow up his offer, I bought myself the rest of Amy’s pregnancy plus thirty days to move everything I own, set up a brand-spanking new store, and be ready to open. Should be fine. I toss my towel over the curtain and step into the shower. My thoughts return to Amy as the water falls over me. I feel protective of her when she’s having a bad day. And so fucking pissed when I think about her prick ex hounding her. I’ve spent most of my life scrambling to get free of this town. Now, thanks to her, I just put ‘my ticket out’ on hold for almost a year. And she never even asked me to do it.
What. The Actual. Fuck.
The craziest thing of all—I don’t regret it. If I lost the LA deal I’d be crushed, but I’d survive. I’d just keep grinding. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she and the baby have what they need.
Because I’m starting to think I need her.
Which is stupid and a surefire way to end up hurt. It’s better not to need anyone, especially since I’m not part of her reality.
I’m her rebellion.
Showered and dressed, I grab my bag and stop in front of a full-length mirror to look myself over. Satisfied, I adjust the backpack on my shoulder, wink at my reflection, and fish Jezebel’s key out of my pocket. As I slide into the driver’s seat, a text comes in.
MamaBear: Just checking on you, son. There’s a lot on your plate…just wanted you to know I’m here. And I love you.
As I type in a joke that has me grinning, Amy’s suggestion slaps me in the face.
“If they could see the side of you I’m getting to know, maybe it’d go a long way towards healing what’s broken.”
I erase me message and type in a new one.
Me: Thanks, Mom. That means a lot. I love you too.
Maybe that’s not exactly what Skippy had in mind, but it’s a start. Right?
Sometimes when the car’s not been sitting long enough to cool the engine down, some unburnt fuel will slip into the exhaust, causing it to pop under the car when it ignites. As if on cue the exhaust pops and cracks. when I twist the key.
And all I can think about is how Amy jumps and squeals like it’s the scariest thing ever.
Every.
Damn.
Time.
I shake my head, then push in the clutch and throw the shifter into reverse. A few seconds after hitting the road, an early 2000’s Mustang appears in my rearview. The driver pushes the car to its limit, trying to catch me. This is the point where Amy would remind me to be the bigger man. That neither the car nor me have anything to prove, and how it would be ‘safer for everyone’ not to race on a public street. I smile and ease my foot off the gas. Lucky she’s not here.
With an eye on my mirrors, I’m careful not to let the other vehicle gain too much of an advantage. I coast along patiently as he nears, one foot on the clutch and the other hovering over the gas. My hand rocks the shifter back and forth as I mull the right gear to choose. When the Mustang is close enough to make out the matte-black hood, I roll my eyes and decide I’ve been nice enough.
A black hood on a car that’s any other color is an almost universal sign of a moron. This should be fun. Jezebel’s ass slips as the tires scream and smoke and tear at the asphalt. When they finally gain traction, the force of the car launching forward shoves me back in my seat. The engine roars like an angry grizzly as the RPM’s climb. When the shift light on my tachometer flashes, muscle memory takes over. One foot eases off the throttle while the other smashes the clutch. My arm deftly shifts into third gear. My left foot flies off the clutch while my right stomps into the throttle. The tires squeal again. In the middle of a race—or in the middle of toying with someone—there isn’t time to worry about the other driver. You’re doing your thing—it’s enough to stay focused on that. When I finally look up and find him shrinking in the distance, I also realize I’m going ninety-five in a forty-five, so I ease off the gas and tap the brakes.
By the time the other Mustang pulls up, Jezebel’s back under the speed limit, and I’m laughing my ass off. He flips me the one finger salute then speeds away.
God help me if Amy were here right now. She’d be white as a ghost and I’d feel bad for terrifying her.
When I reach Inked, I study the exterior as I carefully navigate the potholed parking lot. Looking at it doesn’t remind me of the day the sign was installed. Or the day I opened. It doesn’t remind me of my best work. Or any of the crazy road gigs I’ve landed since. My first and only thought is of the day I met Amy. How she fought to push her way inside against a door that pulls to open.
I crack a smile at the memory.
There she goes again, pushing away every thought that isn’t her.